


Them

by goshua



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Instability, idk - Freeform, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:58:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshua/pseuds/goshua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't specifically Tyler or Blurryface but it can be taken that way if you want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Them

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if there are any errors. I wrote this just to pass the time.

 

Nothing felt right. Yes, the voice was fading. They hadn’t spoken out loud, very much, for a while now. It felt like years. It had really only been about two months. It was terrifying, really, not knowing when they might come back. They were so strong before, they took over so often, yelling and screaming their way out of his mind. It felt painful, throwing himself on the floor and pulling his hair hard, beating his head, trying to get them out. When he shook his head that either meant they were taking over, or he was trying to get rid of them.

 

They finally cut him some slack. Finally let him stay clean for a while, finally stopped taking over so violently. But it was more scary when it was as if a switch had been flipped, and suddenly his voice was not his own and the words he was saying were so horrid and violent he knew that couldn’t be himself. His hands shook and he wanted so badly to go get that tool of destruction, to feel the cool metal warm up in his hands. It was, of course, what he deserved anyway. That’s what they told him. How could they be wrong? It was his mind, why wouldn’t he have control of his own thoughts and actions? But it wasn’t that way at all. No, everything was wrong.

 

Was it wrong because they haven’t been here? They haven’t been as loud? Or was it wrong because they had been there in the first place? There was really no way to get rid of them. That’s what they said. No matter what medication, treatment, anything, they would never go away. He believed them.

 

He never took anything for it, never saw anyone about it, only talked about it with his closest friends. Even then it was difficult to tell who might call him crazy. A voice in your head? That isn’t your own? Impossible. Illogical. Crazy. No one had even called him crazy, but he was afraid. So afraid and then they would be able to take over even more. _Crazy. Crazy. You’re crazy. I’m here. I’m real. Prove it! Let me do to you what you deserve. You know how it works by now. All you have to do is make the first one and then I can do the rest. It’s easy. It’s easy. Start it for me, will you?_

 

No. He didn’t dare even go to the desk drawer where it was hidden. The tricks they tried. _There is a number stamped on it, you don’t remember what it was, go and look? I promise I won’t do anything._ He didn’t fall for it. He yelled and screamed at them and told them to shut up, to please stop but they never would. They say how they will be more powerful one day soon, everything will be worse, everything will be horrible. The world will come crashing down again and again, every single night and every time worse than the last. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to fight them, to make them stop, to get them out of his head. It was the most difficult thing he had ever tried to do in his life.

 

Yes, tried to do. He wasn’t successful. He never was. They’re still there, in the back of his mind, sometimes closer to the front, trying to yell louder and louder again and again. Sometimes there was crying but other times there was screaming and more than one dent in the metal cabinet near the bed. He was forced to constantly gaze at the ruby stain in the carpet that was in front of the bed. The only excuse he could give was that he spilled red paint. He didn’t even own red paint. Everyone believed it, no one ever suspected the worst. Oh how he felt he needed to add more to that stain. They kept telling him he needed to. _It’s been so long, why don’t you let me take over for a bit, just a bit, I promise it won’t be much. But, you deserve it. You deserve the worst. No matter how much you think you don’t. Get out of my way._

 

He didn’t let them. He couldn’t. But they continuously told him that he should. The thoughts were mixing now, he couldn’t tell which were his and which were theirs. Maybe he really did want to die. Maybe this was his own voice now, telling him he needed a release from the horrors in his own mind. But maybe it was just another trick. Another trick he couldn’t figure out, something that made so much sense but didn’t, and it was suffocating. The world around him felt heavy with thoughts and ideas and problems and violent ways to solve them. Nothing felt real anymore. Not that it ever did, really.

 

He would wait for the day where they either win or lose, whichever happened would be the opposite for him. If they lost, he could live on, maybe try to fix things in his life. If they won, he would be dead. But maybe that would be for the better. Maybe this voice was his all along.


End file.
